


Needlework

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:47:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne at her needlework.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needlework

The new design was elaborate; a dense network of flowers and vines, twisting into each other till it was impossible to trace their path, and it seemed to be nothing more than a solid mass of nature. Randa had glanced at it, in the early stages, when Alayne had just been in the process of pricking it out. She had shaken her head and laughed her infectious laugh and asked why she chose such complicated works when she had no Septa to force her to.

Holding out her hand to take it back, Alayne smiled sweetly, “Oh, no reason. I just think it’s lovely.”

She had thought about saying something about her appreciation of the skill it took in the design, and how by reworking it in fabric she would learn how it was composed. But she figured Randa, while an agreeable companion, would not fully appreciate this thrill she had recently discovered.

She had always been good at needlework. As Sansa Stark, it had been her main source of praise. There had always been a degree of challenge in there, of finding the right balance in order to get the stitches straight, the lines just so. That was a challenge suitable for a lady, one where the reward was beauty and the only chance of spilled blood was the prick of a finger.

But she had to admit, as Sansa Stark, she never put too much stock in what the design was. Flowers, birds, lords and ladies—none of it mattered, all of it was just so many stitches. She had followed her lines and the Septa’s lessons, her mother’s critiques, and had produced something beautiful without ever once having to examine the process. And at the end she had looked at her work and seen straight lines and fine stitches, beautiful designs, and nothing more.

Alayne threaded her needle for the day’s work; the winter sun was still low in the air, providing the sitting room with soft light that still held traces of the dawn. She stared down at the half-completed canvas, the burst of activity in one corner surrounded by crisp nothingness. Curiously, she ran her finger along one of the more prominent vines, trying to work out where exactly it ended, but it seemed that part was left to be completed. Still, one day she knew she would be able to follow it.

She speared the fabric, and began. She worked diligently, the way she always did, head bent and eyes focused, unaware of the passage of time. She created the vines in front of her and intently followed their paths, tracing their expanse across her canvas. At the end of this, she knew, she would see more than stitches in this work. She would be able to follow the threads and follow the paths, and work out what was going on underneath what others saw, what Sansa Stark would have seen. Her father always told her to watch and listen for what was not being said. In doing so, you could observe the effort that went into people’s creation’s—their personas, their barriers, their schemes—and you could suss out what it is they really wanted. What they presented to the world was sometimes beautiful and occasionally overwhelming, like the mass of nature taking shape in her lap. In reality, they were just a mass of vines, tangled and predictable and easy to trace if you knew where to start. It had taken her some time to see that, but how could she when her previous teachers never saw for themselves?

A sharp pain radiated from her lap and she drew her hand up to see a thin trickle of blood running along her index finger. Sighing, she brought it up to her mouth to suck. Examining the canvas she was grateful to see that not a drop seemed to have touched her work, but she still found herself slightly embarrassed at such a childish slip, even when she knew there no one to see.

She pulled back her hand to examine her blood-stained skin--the wound was still running, the blood in the fingers so near the surface that even the smallest of cuts bled profusely. She placed her work aside to dab at the blood with her handkerchief…

 _…she was standing on the steps of the Great Sept and the blood was thick and never-ending and she heard nothing but roars and cheers of the crowd and her chest was burning…_

She dropped the stained handkerchief to the floor as her stomach turned with the memory, a memory that had no place here, either in the Vale or in Alayne’s mind, but that still made her heart freeze in her chest. Once again, she was grateful for the solitude.

After a few moments she was able to compose herself, and the memory faded back, back to the part of her mind that she reversed for dreams. The blood on her hand had dried and she dabbed it away, till there was no trace of it left.

She picked her work back up, and focused herself on the paths of her vines. She knew that Randa would find it pretty and command her skill, but it was her father’s reaction she was looking forward to the most. She could not wait for the smile of his approval, sure to be there, as she explained to him what was there, underneath.


End file.
